


Ave Atque Vale

by Salomonderiel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Feels, Funeral, M/M, Pre-Relationship, so many feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:45:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salomonderiel/pseuds/Salomonderiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <blockquote>
  <p> "Laura. Laura Hale. You released her body today, didn’t you?”</p>
</blockquote><p>Stiles has read a lot, watched a lot of TV, and seen what's probably most of pages of Wikipedia. But this? This he's certain of. <br/>No one deserves to go to a funeral alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ave Atque Vale

Stiles is quite proud of the fact that there is, at any one time, only _one_ bottle of whiskey in the house. His father may be a wily bastard upon occasion, but for the past six years Stiles has been the woman of the house and no one, and that means _no one_ , will get anything into her cupboards without Stiles’ permissions, thank you very much. And no matter how many times the sheriff declares it’s for medicinal purposes, there is no need for more than one bottle of alcohol, and no need to get through a bottle a week, at the most.

Because Stiles has seen what happens when his dad gets through more than one bottle a week. And he swore to god, it’s not happening again. And his dad’s sensible, he doesn’t need watching, monitoring; but Stiles prefers having that sense of control, and his dad is kind enough to give it to him.

Now, the one bottle of whiskey only appears for three different reasons: when a case gets too confusing to make sense through sober eyes, when the sheriff has to tell a family that a body’s been found, and after he had to release the body to them.

And Stiles’ brain works quickly – sometimes, a bit too quickly. So when he came home from practise only to step into a hallway that already smelt like a bar, he got it almost immediately. And he kicked himself for not getting it earlier. How had he not _realised_ – loose ends, it was always the small, meaningless loose ends that got forgotten in the drama, that would be the ones to trip you up.

He set his kit bag down quietly at the bottom of the stairs and kicked his shoes off, before heading through into the lounge. His dad was sat on the sofa, a glass swilling in one hand, and the other aimlessly clicking at the remote. As Stiles watched, the TV landed on a match – a rerun on a sports channel – and stayed there.

“You gonna stand there all night, kid? Thought you’ be worn out,” his dad said, not even turning his head from the screen.

Stiles tried to make as little noise as possible as he slid around the room to the armchair he always curled up in, late in the evenings, when there was something on the TV, or he knew his dad didn’t want to be left alone. “Laura,” he muttered, watching his dad, wanting to make sure it was okay to say. “Laura Hale. You released her body today, didn’t you?”

“Had to.” His dad nodded slowly, taking another sip and cradling near-empty glass in his lap. He looked across to Stiles, and did that half-smile that he always used to reassure him he was okay. “Case closed, murderer reported missing – nothing else the body can tell us now. Called Derek on his listed number, told him he could take possession of his sister’s body if he wanted to. I’m telling ya, I’m surprised the kid even showed.”

“He loved his sister,” Stiles said, because he had. He’d given her the best burial he could, back at the beginning of it. He’d taken hope from Scott, to get his revenge for his death. He tucked his feet away, resting his head on his hand and watching the game. He vaguely remembered it – thought he knew who won – but he could stay downstairs a bit longer.

But he couldn’t focus on it. Yeah, it wasn’t like he usually _could_ focus that long, not on something he’d seen before, but... he couldn’t help but wonder. “So, what happened?” he asked, looking back across to his dad. “What was Derek like, when he got to the morgue? Did he seem... sad?” and it sounded so stupid, a ridiculous question ridiculously phrased, but Stiles _wanted to know_ and he couldn’t think of another way to ask.

“Sad? I dunno... stone-faced as ever, really,” and Stiles had to give him that. “He was... lost, though,” his dad said, frowning down at the last dregs of his whiskey. “Didn’t know what to do. I had to help him through filling out the forms. Gave him the number of the undertakers and the Lahey’s, too, to organise the funeral.”

“There’s gonna be a funeral, then?” There should be, and Stiles knew exactly where it would be, too. He’d walked past the large Hale plot in the cemetery many times.

His dad nodded. “Thursday. Kid seemed to want to get it over with, and, I don’t blame him. I know that feeling.”

If there was one problem with his dad drinking after a case, this was it. It was the comments that were too close to hurting him. There was nothing Stiles could do but stay silent, and silently agree.

“I’m probably gonna go,” his dad continued, seeming to relax, somehow. He stretched his legs out, shoulders falling, and to anyone else it’d look like he was over the worst of it – he wasn’t. He was just starting to get scared, not that he’d ever let it show. “Protection, just in case... he’s been cleared, but you always get the nut jobs with their cameras...”

There’d been two at his mom’s funeral, waiting to see the new sheriff cry.

There was more to it than that, Stiles knew. His dad wasn’t that careless. He wouldn’t go to the cemetery without a strong cause, and ever more telling, he _never_ said ‘just in case’ when he was saying the whole truth.

And Stiles thought he got it, what his dad was doing, because he was thinking along the same route. “When on Thursday?” he asked.

“Morning, about eleven, I think. You want the morning off, perchance?”

Even though the way they worked on the _exact_ same wavelength sometimes made it hard to get out of trouble, other times, Stiles found himself glad of how his Dad could read his mind so easily.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.”

*

When he finally got himself down the stairs, his dad was stood in the kitchen, newspaper in one hand and a coffee (decafe, Stiles hoped) in the other. He was, as usual, in full sheriff getup. He looked up when Stiles shoved his feet into his trainers, the soles scuffing on the tiled floor. “Not gonna wear your suit?”

Stiles shook his head sharply. He’d considered it, even put it on, but hadn’t even bothered to look in the mirror before taking it off again. He wasn’t going there to mourn, and if he wore that thing he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Instead, he’d put on his usual jeans, but had exchanged the bright tops for a dark grey hoodie. “Nah, no point,” he said casually, still trying to shove his feet into his shoes as he walked across the kitchen to grab a cereal bar from one of the drawers. “How long ’til we leave?”

“I was thinking we could leave any time now, get there early. If there’s any photographers there-”

_If there were any photographers there, Stiles would tell them to run whilst they still could_. “Kay.” Giving up, he held the still wrapped bar between his teeth as he bent down to untie the laces and put the now flattened trainers on properly.

“You ready?” his dad asked once he was done.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

The instant the engine was turned on, his dad picked a radio station and left it on, but that was fine. His music taste might be dreadful, but it gave Stiles an excuse not to say anything, and made it less likely his dad would ask him that one question he still wasn’t a hundred percent sure he could answer.

As soon as the car-park came into view, Stiles leant forwards in his seat to try and make out the cars, and could see his dad doing the same, teeth gritted. But all he could make out was the truck belonging to the Laheys. “He didn’t want a priest or anything?”

“No.”

Stiles nodded. “Looks like we’re safe from the photographers. Guess I can leave the bat in the car, then.” His dad laughed once.

As per usual, his dad parked so badly that Stiles wanted to flick his hands off the steering wheel and do it for him. But, eventually, after several re-adjustments, they were stationary and satisfactorily parked. “I’m gonna find Mr Lahey, just check everything was alright,” his dad said, flicking off the radio and fiddling with his belt, checking the badge was in place, his keys, the police radio. “You’ll be fine going ahead, right? Or would you rather wait here?”

“No, it’s cool, I’ll go.”

Just because the car wasn’t there didn’t mean Derek wasn’t. Stiles had a feeling the guy would have preferred to walk to the graveyard, and when he saw the shadow barely visible in the cover of the trees, he smiled, nothing more than a tilt of the lips. “I can see you, you know,” he called out, hands in pockets as he walked slowly down the path that cut between the graves. He had to stop his head turning towards where his mother lay. He wasn’t here for her today. “It’s, uh, not usually considered good form to hide in the woods at a funeral. Trust me. I tried.”

He stopped, only a few paces from where the mound of soil marked the final resting place of Laura Hale.

And slowly, very slowly, Derek stepped forwards. It took him a step per minute or so, but slowly, he was making his way towards Stiles. Stiles kept smiling for him. “My dad,” he continued, when Derek was close enough, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb, “He decided to come and make sure everything was okay. I... tagged along.”

A muscle twitched in Derek’s jaw, but he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t looking at Stiles as he stopped moving, wasn’t looking at the grave, the coffin waiting on the boards across it, but the gravel by his feet. “The sheriff,” he said eventually, “He’s, uh, he’s a good man.”

“I know,” Stiles replied softly. For a moment he was unsure, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet, but then he stepped forwards until the empty grave and plain coffin were right in front of him, and Derek was no more than a few centimetres to his left.

He didn’t say anything else. He had to be quiet, he knew, and he didn’t mind. He hadn’t come here to talk. He just waited, standing there in peace as Derek thought whatever he had to, before he was finally able to lay his sister to rest, surrounded by her parents, cousins, and siblings.

When Derek’s breathing fell apart, sharp and fast and uneven, Stiles looked up at him for the first time. There were tears on his cheeks, barely visible in the sunlight, dulled by the heavy cloud cover. Before he even knew what he was doing, Stiles untangled his right hand from his jeans pockets and slipped it into Derek’s. The larger hand felt stiff in his, but he didn’t care. He held it, just tight enough to be comforting.

Derek gasped, head falling back as he tried to catch his tears before they fell, and suddenly his grip tightened, his hand shaking as he pressed Stiles’ fingers together, making them hurt.

Stiles let him. He’d broken fingers before, it was nothing to stay off school for.

He couldn’t have told you how long they’d been left for, but he knew it was his dad’s doing. Mr Lahey never had this much patience. But it was a while – long enough for Derek to be able to breathe again without difficulty, to wipe away any evidence of his tears and let go of Stiles’ hand, with a muttered apology. Stiles ignored it.

When the men finally did come – the two Laheys, father and son, and the sheriff – Derek was as composed as ever – stone-faced as ever, just like Stiles’ father had said. Only the bruises seeping into place on Stiles’ hand showed any sign of Derek’s mourning. The sheriff asked in a low voice if Derek needed more time – Derek shook his head. When Lahey asked if Derek wanted to say anything, that ‘ _you people usually do_ ’, Derek’s jaw clenched and he looked down.

“No, I think he’s fine, thanks,” Stiles said for him, after a pause. When Derek didn’t object, Lahey shrugged. Stiles caught the barely toned-down glare aimed at the undertaker from his father before he looked up at Derek again. His eyes were closed again, and he stood as rigid as he had before. Grief came in waves, Stiles knew. You’re okay for a while, but it always comes back again.

He knocked his hand against Derek’s, the slightest amount of human contact, and when Derek looked across at him in shock, he smiled. He watched as the alpha closed his eyes again, briefly, before nodding ever so subtly, and stepping forwards to help lower the coffin into the ground.

The Laheys left after that, after a nod from the sheriff, but Stiles didn’t, and, not surprising him all that much, his dad didn’t either. Wordlessly, the sheriff took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and had picked up a shovel, after passing the other to Derek.

There were only two shovels, usually for the Laheys, so Stiles couldn’t help. But after a while he offered his dad a rest, and took over for a few minutes.

“I suggest we leave the last bit for the professionals,” his dad said when the coffin was covered and the grave half-full, sweat beading on his forehead as he leant on the shovel.

With a slow nod, Derek agreed. Wordlessly, the sheriff tilted his head back to the car park, and Stiles got the message. He nodded back, and watched his dad leave.

His head turned ever so slightly to her grave, just like Stiles’ had.

“I would stay,” Stiles promised, once again unsure of whether to step towards Derek or leave him alone. “But, um – I came with my dad-”

“Why did you come in the first place, Stiles?”

He’d meant to stick to his previous excuse, that he’d come with his dad, that he was here to look after his dad but Derek... he looked so lost. His eyes were red, and not alpha red, but the shining red of a human in pain, who’d been crying for days. The fury and confusion in his gaze did nothing to cover it. “Because _no one_ deserves to go through this alone,” Stiles told him truthfully, one hand waving at where Laura was now resting, and onwards to where the rest of Derek’s family was buried, all but the mad uncle in the basement. “Especially not you. You’ve – you’ve been through enough, you really have. I couldn’t let you go through this without someone here.”

Once again, Stiles could see the grief welling up inside him, in the way his jaw tightened and his eyes closed, and he kicked himself for being such a tactless _fool_. “I just-” he began, and stopped. “I just hope I was enough.”

Derek nodded, eyes still tightly closed.

He knew that was it, all he was going to get. As he walked past Derek, back to the car, he let his hand rest on Derek’s back for a second or two, one last touch of comfort. “I’ll see you soon, man,” he promised, before walking off.

He nodded to his mum once, an acknowledgement, and a thank you.

*

“How well _do_ you know Derek Hale?” his dad asked, dropping his keys into the bowl just inside the front door. “Because – well, you said you know him a bit better than you said, and – well, I guess I’m just trying to-”

_I know he’s an almost-psycho who killed his actual-psycho uncle. I know he lost his family in a fire started by Kate Argent, leaving him with trust issues, I know he betrayed Scott’s trust to get revenge for the death of his sister, I know he’s seriously confused, and, try as he might to do the right thing, only seems to come across as the bad guy. And I also know that he isn’t._ “I’ve... ran into him a few times, is all,” Stiles said. He kicked off his shoes, flinging them into the corner by the door. “Through Scott. Crossed paths, I guess, we’re... almost-friends-acquaintances.”

“Ah. Okay, I guess. That was a good thing you did, then.”

Not really. There just hadn’t been, really, another option. “Yeah, I guess,” Stiles agreed, with a half grin. He started to head to the kitchen, already half planning lunch in his head. “You ask me, though, that guy just needs a hug. A really, really big hug. Until he _smiles_.”

His dad’s laughter echoed through the walls separating the kitchen and the lounge. “Just forewarn me if _you’re_ gonna try to give that kid a hug,” he called, “I’d be happier knowing someone was supervising it. With a gun.”

“I thought you’d cleared him!?”

“Doesn’t mean I’d feel you were safe hug-raping the guy!”

Stiles grinned, and opened the fridge. Perhaps they both deserved a BLT today.

**Author's Note:**

> No, I don't know what possessed me to write something with SO. MANY. FEELS. Either. 
> 
> The titles comes from poem 101 by Catullus, which was written to his brother, after travelling far to visit his grave. It translates as 'Hail and Farewell'. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
